


metacrisis time lords and the zeitgebers who love them

by neverwhyonlywho



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-28
Updated: 2013-12-28
Packaged: 2018-01-06 12:43:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1106965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neverwhyonlywho/pseuds/neverwhyonlywho
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Zeitgeber: an external cue that synchronizes an organism's biological rhythm to a 24-hour day light/dark cycle.</p>
            </blockquote>





	metacrisis time lords and the zeitgebers who love them

**Author's Note:**

> The first time Tentoo and Rose ~~"sleep together"~~ sleep together.  
>  2013 fic advent calendar promptfill for ramblingsfromthemiddleofnowhere on tumblr.  
> 

They've been dancing around this for weeks now.

This is dancing around a subject in the way of their lives in Pete's world, though, which is to say: with a purpose, and a direction, and crystal clear but  _completely_  unhurried intent.

She'd thought about this for months. Years, even. Lying on her back in grassy fields at night, waiting for the dimension cannon to recharge, or lying on her cot at Torchwood, waiting for the dimension cannon to be repaired, she'd hold the idea and turn it over in her mind's eye.

When she was younger she'd thought that sleeping with the Doctor was an inevitability.

(When she was younger she'd thought they were both quite possibly invincible, especially together.)

And then they ran out of time.

(Or: and then she was simply proven wrong.)

But now he's here, and they're both older, and she's aware that the hourglass is trickling, always trickling down--for both of them, now. He's still all swagger and not a little brooding, but his familiar smile is back, especially when he actually succeeds at being impressive.

She can tell he's working on himself. She's making him better, but  _he's_  making him better, too, and this isn't a zero-sum game anymore. She's his partner, not his companion, and she knows she'd have argued that there was no difference before Canary Wharf, but the difference is brilliantly, joyously clear from this side of the fence.

He's also an excellent kisser. Genius, really.

Did she mention unhurried?

He seems intent on doing this the proper Earth way, assimilating into human society, observing customs and whatnot, so he takes her out on the weekends when they've not got fieldwork. And then he takes her back home at the end of the night, properly gentleman-like, saying goodbye on her front stoop.

The problem--if it can be called a problem--is that these goodnight kisses just keep getting longer and longer. She knows the taste of his mouth, now, the press of his body, and how his fingers can twitch with a thing she knows is want because her own hands ache with it, too.

("You could stay," she tells him breathlessly. It's the third weekend in a row. He grins--cheeky, but also shy. "Not tonight," he says, and she nods.)

***

"My heat's broken," she tells him on the fourth weekend. His eyebrows raise in alarm.

"And it's January! You'll freeze." This is exactly the response she was hoping for, but then he says: "I can prob'ly fix it, if you give me a bit?"

She's tempted to give him a withering stare, but she just gives him a playful eyeroll instead. "I was _more_ hoping you'd offer to come keep me warm."

If he weren't looking so bloody delighted, she'd say he looked scandalized. "Rose Tyler! Are you trying to seduce me?"

"Yeah, I am," she laughs. "Bought you some jimjams and everything. Rose Tyler approved. Guaranteed good for a cuddle. What d'you think? Are you properly wooed?"

He pretends to consider it, but she can see the amusement and the relief there, and she knows he'll say yes before he opens his mouth.

"Rose, is your heat actually broken?"

"Not in the least," she promises. "But I was honest about the cuddle. Miss you." She bites her lip. "D'you wanna come in? Got an extra toothbrush and everything."

The corners of his eyes crinkle up when he smiles, and she loves him, somehow, just a little bit more.

***

(She closes the windows and turns the heat back on while he's in the loo, feeling a little foolish and more than a little smitten.)

***

The room is dim, just a quarter-light on her bedside table, and he slips under the covers with no hesitation at all, settles in like he belongs there. (She's of the opinion that he does, but she wants _him_ to feel that way, too.)

She's chosen some fairly conservative jimjams herself--socks and sweats and a long-sleeved shirt and a loose sleeping bra, as much for warmth as to reassure him of her good intentions.

He pulls back the covers for her when she slides in, too, tucking them back up around her once she's near him.

All of this is warm, and safe, and she wonders if she should be embarrassed for being so ridiculously happy. Instead she turns off the light, nuzzles against his shoulder and asks, "D'you want to be the big spoon or the little spoon?"

Even by starlight, she can see him blink. "What's this about spoons? I thought you wanted to cuddle."

(She's flummoxed for a second, but then the corners of her mouth are quivering and she's biting her tongue, hard.)

He turns on his side to face her, and it's his arm around her waist, now, pulling her against him all gentle and sure. "No matter. Come here to me, then," he says, and it's completely unfair how his voice has gone all low and smooth and just a little bit gravelly, completely unfair how she's suddenly finding it very difficult to form a coherent response.

They settle into a sort of sideways half-spoon cuddling, him on his side and her on her back, his arm under her neck and one of her legs nestled between his. There's a comfortable silence, and all he's doing is sifting her hair through his fingertips and nosing her temple, but it's infinitely soothing.

"I should warn you I don't sleep well," he murmurs. "Might be up and down. I hope I don't wake you."

She frowns, turning her head so that her nose brushes his lips, and he places a kiss there without any apparent thought.

"Doctor, is that why you haven't--?"

He shrugs with his free shoulder. "Maybe, a bit. Wanted to fix it before we, ah...before you had to deal with it. On a regular basis, I mean."

"Thoughtful of you." She pokes him in the ribs, and he gives a breathy huff of a laugh. "Don't need to worry about that, though. I don't mind. It's okay, yeah?"

"I believe you," he says, and kisses her properly. "I'll believe you more after the fact."

"Wanker," she smiles, because it's true he's concerned, but he's also not retreating as he had before, not entirely--it's forward motion, even if incremental. "Go to sleep. I'll be here."

***

He wasn't lying, but neither was she.

He's up every few hours, still evidently governed by some internal clock that doesn't quite match a twenty-four-hour day. She stirs when he does, doesn't quite wake every time, but still dimly remembers him leaving her side.

When she does wake to the feel of him gingerly slipping back into bed, it's sometime before dawn and she opens her arms to him, finding that he settles into them with a sigh like weight coming off of his shoulders.

He'll talk if he's ready, she decides, and so she simply holds him, kissing the top of his head as his ear rests against her breast.

"I love you," she tells his hair.

"Haven't scared you off yet?"

She scoffs, although she's half asleep, so it's more of a gruff mumble. "Not a chance,"

She kneads at his scalp with gentle fingers in the silence that comes after, and one day, she knows, the sound of low appreciation he makes will be all invitation--but right now it's all promise and thanks, and it's plenty.

(He sleeps for _hours_ after that.)


End file.
